


Wayfaring Stranger

by sansbanshees



Series: Wayfaring Stranger [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because I can, Elves in Kilts, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow(ish) Burn, The Outlander AU no one asked for, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5202023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pursued by a huntress and captured by what she believes to be Dalish elves, Evelyn Trevelyan is a long way from familiar territory. With a strange magic seared into her palm and no easy escape in sight, she'll have to rely on her wits to survive long enough to find her way back to the Conclave.</p><p>*On hiatus indefinitely*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen Through Time

**Author's Note:**

> A _huge_ thank you to eveningshadowrising for her ninja-like beta skills. <3333

Evelyn opens her eyes and the sun nearly blinds her, hung far above the sparse scattering of clouds in the midday sky. She throws her arm over her face to block the light and rolls to her side with what little strength she still possesses. 

The ground beneath her is damp, the earthy scent of wet dirt and decaying foliage sticking in her nose. Birdsong echoes all around.

Hadn’t she been inside the temple?

She remembers excusing herself from her duties in the clinic that had been set up for the duration of the Conclave. She remembers too many patients, mages and Templars alike, too many wounds left to rot due to lives on the run, and too many senseless deaths because of it. She remembers walking the halls to clear her head, with no particular destination in mind.

She also remembers running. Something chasing her. A woman not far ahead, her form a bright beacon, bursting with light as blinding as the sun, reaching out to her, and then...

Nothing.

She sits up, clenches her hand into a fist with a startled gasp when it spikes with pain. Her eyes dart downward, widen in shock when they take in the green glow that sparks and spits, as if angered by her movements, but the pain and the glow dull quickly, and her hand goes dormant.

What…?

A noise in the distance chases the question from her head before it can fully form. Another follows, thunderous and echoing, the force of whatever made it shaking the earth beneath her. Evelyn drags herself upright and into a stumbling run. Whether it’s towards or away from the source of that noise, she doesn’t know.

Shouting echoes in the forest around her, closer with every bounding step she takes.

An attack? It makes sense, considering the nature of the Conclave. Either the Templars or the mages have made their move, though she hopes it's the former. Her own people are in a precarious enough position, after Kirkwall’s Chantry was destroyed. An attack on the very summit that might grant them peace would end negotiations before they even began.

Her next step sends her tumbling down an incline, fallen leaves a poor cushion when she lands. She scrambles to her feet and turns to continue her haste, but stops short at the sight of an elven woman bent over a corpse to wrench an arrow from its chest. It might have bothered Evelyn, once upon a time, but she has seen so much death this past year that the body concerns her far less than the woman bent over it.

The woman rises and turns, head tilting when her eyes settle on Evelyn. She is beautiful, terrifyingly so, with eyes like steel and power so palpable it seems to singe at Evelyn’s skin even from several feet away. Adorned in furs with a sash of checkered green and red across her chest, the same checkered fabric pleated and covering her from waist to knee, and the wild lengths of her pale blonde hair are littered with crumbling bits of leaves that look almost decorative. At her back hangs a polished longbow—and by the look of the woman’s ease, used often.

“A shemlen in my lands?” The question itself is almost cordial, something akin to amusement in the woman’s voice, but the cold fury in her eyes is unmistakable. “Allowing your kind the _privilege_ of aiding me against Mythal was not an invitation to cross my borders.”

“Your lands?” There are no Dalish camps near Haven, are there? How far has Evelyn strayed? How has she strayed? “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You speak of sorrow as if you know the meaning of the word, shemlen.” She spits the term now, approaching with all the coiled grace of a predator with its prey cornered. “Tell me, how many of you were fool enough to think they would be welcomed here with open arms?”

The urge to run rises with a vengeance, but something tells her that it would only be entertainment for the woman, and that she will not provide. If she is to die, it will be on her feet, staring her death in the face. “I’m alone.” Her voice may shake, but the jut of her chin is defiant.

The woman nods. “I believe you.” Her mouth curves into a dark smile and she takes Evelyn’s chin in hand to force their eyes level. “As for sorrow… Dirthara-ma.”

Evelyn may not understand the final words, but the threat in her voice is clear. Before any move can be made to deliver it, the strange power in Evelyn’s hand flares to life once more. The shock of it forces the woman to recoil, step back to gape in disbelief, but only for a moment. She lunges forward as soon as she’s recovered, snatches up Evelyn’s wrist, and raises it high to inspect her hand.

“What is this?” She snarls, all notions of toying with her prey set aside. "How did you come by such power, shemlen?”

“A _demon_.” Evelyn bluffs and jerks her wrist free, facing her palm outward as she stumbles back, as if she means to conjure a terrible force. It's a risky gambit, but her options are limited. “If you don’t turn around and walk away, right now, I swear to you I will use it.”

For a moment, the woman says nothing, only looks Evelyn up and down with so calculating a gaze, it feels as though Evelyn's very soul is being examined.

“Show me,” she says, unimpressed with the threat once her evaluation has been made. “Show me what your kind can do.”

Evelyn sneers and keeps her hand aloft, but of course, nothing happens. Whatever this is, it’s not under her command.

The woman laughs and draws a dirk from her belt. “A shame. For a moment, I thought perhaps your people were capable of more than we give you credit for.” She points the dagger at Evelyn’s outstretched hand. “Allow me to relieve you of your undeserved gift. A dead shemlen will have no need of it.”

A barrier forms around Evelyn before she can blink and splits them further apart. A second later, the woman is hit with an enchantment thrown seemingly out of thin air and crumples to an unconscious heap on the ground.

An elven man rushes down the incline that had brought Evelyn here, and toes the unconscious elven woman with his half-wrapped feet to satisfy himself that she doesn’t pose any further threat. He’s dressed much the same was the woman, though his face bears the tattoos Evelyn understands to be associated with the Dalish. The colors he wears are different as well, deep purple and gold instead of red and green. When he turns to Evelyn, the barrier dissipates.

“Come with me,” he says, curling his fingers around her forearm to pull her with him. “Quickly, before she wakes up.”

“No!” Evelyn pulls free of his hold, beyond frightened, beyond confused. Though perhaps she should be grateful, at least, for his intervention. “Who is that? Who are _you_? What’s happened to the Conclave?”

"That is Andruil herself," he says, eyeing her as if she is the daftest thing he’s ever encountered, "And you are in her forest, which is a very unwise place for anyone to trespass, let alone a shemlen. Believe me when I say that you don’t want to linger here.”

"No, I don’t,” she agrees, trying for gratitude but falling woefully short, “But I'm not going anywhere with you." She'll go back, she decides, the way she came. Surely others from the Conclave yet live, and there is more safety in numbers away from Dalish territory. When she turns to leave, however, he darts over to block her path. "What are you—Let me pass!"

His violet eyes narrow. "Do you really think you’re in any position to bark orders? A shemlen woman in elvhen lands, with magic embedded in her hand the likes of which I have never seen before? No. You’re coming with me, willingly or not."

He whispers a word before she can reply, one she doesn’t understand any more than the earlier threat from the woman lying unconscious not a foot away.

It is the last thing she remembers.

***

When she wakes, Evelyn finds herself flung over a coarse-furred creature, her hands bound and secured to the wide leather strap of its harness. Every trot jostles her, and the ground passes quickly beneath her eyes. She lifts her head, tilts it one way to identify the wide-antlered hart that carries her, and then the other way to catch sight of her captor. He shifts his gaze down to her, and there is a sliver of something like amusement in his eyes when he sees that she is conscious.

“We could have done this the easy way, you know. That can’t be comfortable.” 

She narrows her eyes. “Where are you taking me?”

“To a sacrificial altar,” he says, light as air. “What other use would I have for a shemlen?”

“You’re joking.” Or, he seems to be, but then—Maker, maybe not? Worry creeps into her voice at the doubt. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Am I?” He smiles. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

Her jaw sets, but she asks no further questions.

They ride in silence for a long while, and when she thinks he isn’t looking, Evelyn tests the strength of her bonds. She tugs and pulls and twists, to no avail. Fire would fix this and she’s tempted to try, but—he’d taken her so easily. Just a whisper of a word and out she went.

What would he do if she actively tried to escape?

Part of her doesn’t care. She hasn’t survived this long to give up now, not after the bloody escape from Ostwick’s Circle, not after months on the road with no goal besides staying free and alive in the face of a world that would see her dead for the fear of her magic. She also hasn’t survived this long by acting rashly, though. This man, despite literally binding her, doesn’t seem to wish her harm. He’d intervened, hadn’t he? If nothing else, an opportunity to slip away might present itself later on. She will wait, then.

By the time they stop, her every muscle is aching, joints stretched too tight for too long. When he cuts her loose, she stumbles on the landing, as if her feet have never borne her weight before.

“I wouldn’t run, if I were you,” he says, a wave of his hand obscuring the hart they’d ridden from view. “Andruil has your scent and she will track you to the ends of the world for daring to escape.”

The thought is sobering, but it doesn’t stop her from scoffing. “You’re not worried she’ll find _you_? It’s not as if I got away on my own.”

“I’m not hers to hunt.” He taps at the tattoo on his forehead. “You, on the other hand… You belong to no one. If you’d like to continue not being dead for awhile longer, you should cooperate. It’ll go a long way with the people you’re about to meet.”

Following him like a cow to slaughter is not her first choice, but possible death beats certain death, in the end. That woman—Andruil—will find her. It’s a truth Evelyn can feel in her bones, even if she knows nothing else. Running now, with no knowledge of the terrain, no staff to grant her any measure of precision should it come to fighting for her life, the strange pulse of power in her hand that’s come from Maker knows where—it would be a mistake.

“By all means, then,” she says, no attempt at all to downplay the sour note in her voice, “Lead on.”

“Aren’t you spirited?” It sounds suspiciously like a compliment. “And here, I’d thought your kind too dull to amuse me even by accident.”

He takes her by the shoulders and turns her around. The air just ahead of where he’s pointed her is— _off_ , a barely perceptible shiver passing through it, though it’s easier to spot the longer she looks.

“Walk straight ahead,” he says, pushing, albeit gently, at her back.

She goes at his insistence, and— _Maker_ , she is not prepared. Passing through that magic feels like being ripped clean out of the world, as if some invisible force has her in its clutches and pulls with all its might. When she passes through to the other side, she immediately drops to her knees and doubles over. It’s all she can do to keep the scant contents of her stomach where they belong.

He passes through a moment after, nearly tripping over her, and looking a bit worse for the wear himself. “That was bracing.” When he looks down, his brow furrows. “ Are you—ill?”

“ _Dizzy_ ,” Evelyn snaps, pressing a hand to her stomach as if the gesture will settle it. “What _was_ that?”

He helps her up and sets about untying her hands. “Wards.” It seems to surprise him, the effect it’s had, though he’s faring better than she is. “Strange. Solas doesn’t usually set faulty wards.” The latter is spoken more to himself than to her.

“That is because he did not set them.” A man’s voice interrupts them, and he does not sound pleased.

When she finally looks ahead, Evelyn notices the group of elves further in what looks to be a cave, gathered around someone lying on the ground. One of them steps forward, golden eyes narrowed in suspicion and obvious displeasure as he looks her over.

“Felassan.” 

Her erstwhile captor looks to the man and starts talking in the same foreign language Andruil spoke.

His name, perhaps?

The words rattling between them are clearly an argument, Felassan’s tone defensive as he gestures first to Evelyn, and then to her hand, while the other man simply sounds angry, his eyes narrowing to slits and his arms crossing over his chest. Not knowing what is being said is unsettling, considering she _knows_ they are speaking of her—and most likely what her fate will be. All of a sudden, she wishes she’d listened to the senior enchanters when they recommended studying the little elven known to the Circle with the claim that it would bolster her spellwork. It would certainly be of use right now.

“ _Fenedhis_. See to your shemlen, while I see to Solas.” The man waves her captor, Felassan, away. He must be the leader, then.

Felassan huffs. “She’s hardly _my_ shemlen, Abelas.”

The leader, Abelas, doesn’t deign to acknowledge the rebuttal. He kneels by the elf on the ground—Solas, she reminds herself, names build a rapport, a rapport means they might not _kill_ her, at least not right away—and when she follows Felassan’s nudge to approach the group, her eyes adjust to the brighter light of the conjured orbs above their heads.

The injury Abelas intends to see to is no mere flesh wound. Every vein in Solas’s right arm is black, bulging, fit to burst with what looks to be some kind of entropic magic, but worse than anything she’s ever seen in the Circle—and she’s seen much of that particular magic, among several others, in her practice as a healer. The way Abelas is drawing his hand back, she can also tell he’s about to rip the entirety of it out by its roots.

“Wait!” Evelyn rushes forward only to stop short when the elves left standing assume a defensive posture. She holds her hands up immediately in a show of surrender, but steels her gaze when it meets Abelas’s. The daggers he’s glaring make her want to wither and die, but doing so would likely mean two deaths instead of just one, and it isn’t in her to allow either without a fight. “If you do that, you’ll collapse his veins. He’ll lose that arm, if it doesn’t kill him outright.”

Abelas fixes her with a piercing stare, as if he is weighing the contents of her soul, and finding her severely wanting. It seems to be the recurrent theme of her day. “What would you know of magic, shemlen?”

“I know enough.” However much she would like to do it, arguing with him is pointless. The more time they waste, the faster the magic will spread. “Let me try. Please.”

He is not pleased with her answer, that much is obvious in the set of his jaw, but he stands nonetheless, and the others back down at his signal. “Try, then.”

She sees this as the test it clearly is, but puts the thought out of her mind when she approaches, and kneels down to examine the damage more closely. She reaches for his arm, gentling her touch as much as she can when he winces at the contact. “Your name is Solas?”

“If—” He hisses a sharp breath when her magic reaches for him, too strong too fast, surprising even her at the ferocity in which it responds to her will, and his arm draws tight against his side until the pain passes. “If there are to be introductions, yes. I am Solas.”

“Maker, I’m sorry,” she says, straightening his arm back out gently with a pang of empathy. “I mean, I’m—Evelyn. And also sorry.”

He chuckles—or means to—but it's a thin sound. “This is not your doing. You needn’t be sorry for it.”

“Well. Let’s agree to disagree.”

She traces her fingers down the length of his arm, the thread of her magic settling in beneath his skin, delicate as needlework this time to seek out where he’d been struck, the point where this curse festers and grows, and finding it just above his wrist.

“I might hurt you,” she murmurs, an apology in her voice, if not in her words.

At his nod, she presses two fingers to the beat of his pulse, and there is something decidedly calming in the rhythm of it, despite its quickness at the pain he must be in. Rather than waste time in attempting to soothe it, she follows the flow of his blood up to the blackened, bolus energy that plagues him, and with a quick jerk of her own power, she tugs loose the embedded impetus to devour its host. His breath rushes out through his nose at the sensation, but when she looks up, a fair amount of the tension held in his face has eased.

She lets go of his arm, and settles her hands on her knees. “The remnants will probably linger for a day or two, but… It should dissipate on its own.”

“You have my thanks.” His words are earnest enough, but the way he’s looking at her… It’s more curiosity than gratitude, though gratitude is there too, if she squints. When she moves to rise, he reaches out to stall her, his hand taking hers and turning it over to face her palm upward. “I should like to examine this, when time permits. If you’ll allow it.”

“ _Oh_.” She smiles at the mention of her allowance for such a thing, just a small quirk of her mouth, there and gone in a flash. That he thought to add it is appreciated, no one has done anything of the sort for a very long time, even before today. “I suppose it can’t hurt. It’s not as though I’m going anywhere for the time being.”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” He agrees, and squeezes her hand softly before he releases his hold. “Thank you, Evelyn.”

“You’re welcome.” She stands and offers her hand again to help him do the same, pleased when he accepts it with the hand that isn’t covered in blackened veins. His weight is not insignificant, but she manages to help him up, though she has to take a step back to meet his eyes when he straightens to his full height. “ See that you take it easy on that arm. I don’t think you’re at risk of losing it any more, but rest will make for a faster recovery.”

He chuckles, the sound of it much stronger now, and really… quite nice. “I shall endeavor.”


	2. Chapter 2

Evelyn is not certain what to do with herself now. All eyes are on her, the weight of their collective gaze heavy on her back, and she cannot bring herself to turn away from Solas to meet their scrutiny.

The longer her eyes hold his, though, the more she feels that she _ought_ to look away. She cannot help but notice what a rich shade of blue they are, and the interest he regards her with, the way he openly studies her, as if she is more of a fascination than a hostage—it is almost too easy to forget how she came to be here.

She is almost grateful when Abelas sweeps forward and reminds her.

“We have wasted enough time here.” He says, addressing his people, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, preparations begin for departure. Weapons are checked, supplies are tucked back into packs, and though the majority of them pause before their exit to inspect Evelyn one last time, no indication is given that she should follow, so she does not.

Felassan does not waste time in leaving either, and she has the distinct feeling that he is attempting to distance himself from her. And here, she thought that he was starting to _like_ her.

So much for that.

Abelas speaks quickly in elven to Solas in a low voice while she hangs back, his tone no more friendly than it was before, but it does not seem to be an argument. When they both turn to look at her, she looks right back, head held high—not an open challenge, but unwilling to show the fear that is clenched like a fist in her chest.

This may not be the same kind of obvious danger she stumbled into with Andruil, but she is far from safe.

Bearing that in mind, Evelyn studies them closely during their exchange to learn what she can. Abelas wears the same plaid as Felassan, bears the same tattoos on his face, and his silvery hair is pulled back into a long braid. Solas has no tattoos that she can see. She notes, with some interest, that his own plaid is black and red and threaded with white, rather than purple and gold. His hair is different too—also long, but a rich, dark brown, shaved on both sides and tied back, rather than braided.

A different clan, perhaps?

After a moment of silence, Solas says something else to Abelas, one corner of his mouth drawing back in a half-smile as he watches her watch them, but his eyes do not leave her as he speaks. Abelas snorts at whatever was said, but nods, a begrudging acquiescence in his tone as he responds.

Perhaps she is wrong then, in her assumption of who is in charge. Could the colors they wear signify a difference in rank?

When Abelas moves towards her, she resigns herself to wonder awhile longer.

“This way.” He takes her by the forearm and walks her brusquely towards the mouth of the cave, a jerk of his other hand dispelling the enchantments warding this place before they reach them, and she feels a begrudging flicker of gratitude for the act, considering what they did to her when she passed through before. "You are coming with us. Know you this—one word of any intent to escape, one _move_ to do so, and I will not hesitate to dispose of you."

Evelyn jerks her arm free of his hold and fixes him with a hard glare. “Dont worry. I wouldn’t _dream_ of depriving myself of your charm.”

There is a snort of muffled laughter to her side, and she turns to find Felassan upon his hart, his mouth held in a tight line and purposefully averting his eyes.

Abelas does not share in his amusement.

“Test me further, shemlen, and you will become acquainted with the full extent of my charm.”

She does not soften the glare in her eyes, but she does hold her tongue. He does not strike her as a man given to idle threats.

Solas follows after a moment, gingerly pulling his sleeve back down over the wiry length of his arm. He spares them a glance before a quick wave of his hand reveals his own mount, another hart, its fur darker than Felassan’s, its antlers taller. He hoists himself up with considerable effort, and she is pleased to see that he favors his good arm, though whether it is for his sake or because he followed her advice is difficult to say.

Both, perhaps.

Abelas jerks his head towards Solas. “You will ride with him. See that his affliction does not worsen.” _Or else_ is left off, but Evelyn gleans his meaning. Her test is not over yet. If anything, her glibness has only extended it.

She follows him over, and both he and Solas aid her in getting a leg over the hart to slide into place at the front. Abelas departs without another word. Solas guides her further back once she is settled, until her back is pressed to his chest and the outside of her thighs to the inside of his.

The sudden warmth of his body prompts a shiver.

He does not remark on the shiver, but he does reach back to draw the thick woolen sash he wears around both of them.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Evelyn says. Her tone does not offer more than fleeting gratitude for the warmth, but it lacks the venom of her earlier exchange with Abelas. Still. She should say the words, rather than just imply them. “Thank you.”

“You did not have to assist me,” he reminds her, nudging her elbow to prompt her to hold the sash around them while he takes up the reins, and then they are off, riding at the back of the group. “And yet, you did. It is the least I can offer to repay that kindness.”

She is tempted to say that it was nothing, to downplay her actions, but he is right, in a way. She did not have to help him. In fact, she had every reason _not_ to help him. One less captor would certainly be in her best interest—the less of them there are to watch her, the better her odds are of escaping, after all. She would not go so far as to call it kindness, though; instinct might serve better, the part of her that veers so strongly towards healing utterly unable to stand back and watch when she might be able to _do_ something.

“I can’t abide needless suffering,” Evelyn admits quietly. “Not if I can help.” It is the only explanation she can offer that makes sense.

“Neither can I.” Solas shares, as if it is a secret that few are aware of. “We have that in common, it seems.”

The admission piques her interest, and not only because it seems such an odd thing to share with a stranger, but also because she believes it. She cannot say _why_ , but she does. “So you don’t plan on disposing of me, then?”

“Not without cause.”

His answer does not surprise her, but the way he says it, without any hint of malice—that _does_ throw her. She expected a sentiment similar to Abelas’s unflinching promise, but then… she is worth something, isn’t she? So long as she does not prove to be a threat? The mark on her hand grants her consideration, Felassan had all but said as much before he took her, and though the mystery of its origin should—and does—unnerve her, right now it seems more of a blessing than a curse.

It also explains why Solas seems to find her so interesting.

She draws her hand out of the warmth the sash and his body heat provide to study it with her own eyes, the first opportunity she has truly had to do so. There is nothing amiss in its appearance, the same pale skin and criss-crossing lines and furrows cover her palm, but beneath that… She can feel the unsettling weight of something that does not belong, something _other_ , power unlike anything she has ever felt before laying dormant in the home it has found in tissue and bone.

“It’s because of this, isn’t it?” She does not have to turn to ensure that he understands what she refers to. She can feel his gaze like a shiver on her skin; he is studying her hand just as intently as she is.

“That is one reason.” He agrees.

Evelyn furrows her brow. “There's more than one reason?”

“It is one of many. Despite what you may think, we are not like the woman Felassan took you away from.”

Andruil.

Evelyn shudders at the recollection of Andruil’s terrible smile, of the glint of light off the blade she drew, and the way her power seemed poised to choke the air from Evelyn’s lungs. “How did you know about her?”

“I have ears,” he says, though how he managed to hear Felassan’s explanation of Evelyn’s presence to Abelas in the throes of that much pain is a wonder. “I would not leave an _enemy_ to suffer at her hands, and I will not see you suffer anything of the kind with us.”

There is a note of steel in his voice that was not there, before. That piques her interest too, but not nearly as much as the latter half of his statement. “Why should you care what happens to me?”

“Because you are a kind woman, and act selflessly, even when you should not.” He speaks of her with such certainty, as if one instance alone was enough to prove her character. “I see no danger in you, apart from the mark you bear.”

“You don’t even know me.” She points out, and it immediately strikes her as a foolish thing to say; she should be encouraging his perception, leveraging it in a bid to get away, but he seems… There is something about him, some indefinable thing she cannot help but trust. “I could be _incredibly_ dangerous, for all you know.”

Solas chuckles at that. “I suppose that remains to be seen. I advise you not to say such a thing to Abelas, however.”

Evelyn huffs a quiet laugh. “No sense of humor, then?”

“On the contrary, actually, but he must warm to you before he will show it.”

She tries to picture Abelas with a smile, tries to envision him laughing, and fails miserably to conjure either image. “Really? How long does that usually take?”

He pauses for a moment, considering. “You… may not live long enough to see it.” Before she can take his answer the wrong way, he goes on. “Your lifespan is very short, compared to ours.”

She is about to ask what he means by that—because it cannot be what she _thinks_ he means—but then he speaks again.

“The mark… How did you come by it?” He asks. The questions holds sincere curiosity, which only throws her further. An interrogation would not surprise her, she _expects_ that, but a conversation is something else entirely.

She sighs. “Would you believe me if I said I don’t know?”

“I would.” Solas says, and she has no trouble believing him, either. “Do you not remember where it came from?”

She shakes her head. “No. I—I woke up like this. It was just there. I don’t know why.”

He considers her answer with a thoughtful noise. “That is… perplexing.”

A bright orange light glows ahead of them, and with it, she hears the unmistakable sounds of music, of revelry. But it sounds almost like an echo, faint and rippling, repetitive, as if caught in a loop. Evelyn goes tense, posture straightening and gaze sharpening as the noise gets closer, but the elves stay their course, paying the light and the sound no mind. 

“Maker’s breath, what _is_ that?”

“Spirits.” Solas does not sound particularly worried. “They often gather at sites of heightened emotion.” He pauses, straining to listen. “This sounds like a celebration.”

_Spirits_? That—cannot be. Spirits do not pass through the veil, not without possessing someone, not without being summoned and bound by a mage’s will.

They break through the trees and into a clearing. Dozens of wisps stand in observance of two spectres, their hands joined, bound together by a twisting length of pulsing light. The thin, ghostly glow of fires are lit all around them. Voices speak in elven, words she cannot understand, but the sound is bright, _happy_. The music begins again, joined by raucous, cheering voices.

How…?

“They re-enact a union, a… wedding, I believe, is what your people call it.” Solas explains, guiding his hart to follow his companions, but she can feel him shifting to observe the scene. “I have seen many such things in my travels, though this event is far more pleasant than other memories spirits tend to gravitate towards.” It is hard to miss the note of appreciation in his voice.

“How are they crossing the veil?” Evelyn cannot tear her eyes from the sight. It is— _beautiful_ , and the obvious reverence he holds for the sight only seems to enhance its effect. “That shouldn’t even be possible.”

“Veil?” He repeats the word, as if he is uncertain of its meaning. “The Fade goes where it will. Does it not venture to your lands as well?”

“To my…” Maker’s breath, where _is_ she? The veil grows thin in places, certainly, but it does not allow the Fade itself to enter the physical world. That is unheard of. “No, the Fade is… We only reach it in _dreams_.”

“Ah.” Her answer seems to satisfy a curiosity. “We visit the Fade in dreams as well, but it also finds us in the waking world. Perhaps your people’s grasp of magic is still too new to draw it near.”

Her brow furrows at the supposition. “Too new?”

“Yes. Your kind has only exhibited the ability in recent centuries.”

The Dalish isolate themselves from the world, she knows that, and can hardly blame them for the practice, but to be ignorant of a thousand of years of history, of humans wielding magic… How can he not know that, when Tevinter itself all but decimated his people?

“Solas, we’ve had magic for—” Evelyn means to argue, but a sharp pain spiking in her hand cuts her words off abruptly.

She gasps at the sensation and clutches at her wrist, as if the pressure of her hold could hope to contain it. The green glow is fierce and bright, pulsing in time with each shot of pain. Maker, but it _hurts_ , power pushing at her skin as if it means to break free, as if her flesh holds it prisoner. She tries to grit her teeth through the worst of it, but a sharp, pained noise pushes out anyway.

Solas jerks hard on the reins to stop the hart in its tracks, and pulls her to the ground with him. The spirits in the clearing scatter at the sudden movement. He helps her sit with his still injured arm wrapped gently around her shoulders and a hand at her elbow, crouching down beside her in the carpet of twigs and dead leaves as the others circle back to where they have stopped. Only Abelas dismounts, approaching them as Solas takes her hand in his and turns it to study the slowly fading glow.

“What has provoked it?” Abelas asks. He crouches next to Solas, angling his head for a better view of her hand.

Solas glances up at the sound of Abelas’s voice. “Nothing, as far as I can tell.” His thumb sweeps across the center of Evelyn’s palm. His touch feels grounding, _safe_ , completely at odds with the reality of her situation, and she does not know what to make of that. “This mark, it is volatile. We must hasten our journey, or we risk losing her.”

Abelas arches what must have once been an eyebrow, before the lines of his tattoo took its place.

“—and it.” Solas adds. “Mythal may be able to bind it, at least long enough for a proper study to be made.”

Abelas shakes his head. “We cannot take her to Arlathan. It is forbidden.”

“Arlathan?” Evelyn interrupts their exchange, eyes wide at the mention of a place that no longer exists. Arlathan is _gone_. Anyone who has so much as cracked open a history book knows that. “Did you just… say Arlathan?”

“I did.” Abelas says, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why do you ask, shemlen?”

“It’s just…” Lies have never been her strong suit. It is all she can do to measure her breath, slow the pace of her words. “I’ve never heard the name before.”

Maker willing, he will not pick up on the deception, because she cannot possibly tell either of them the truth, if the half-formed idea in her head is really what has happened to her—and it cannot be. Her mind rebels at the very notion. There are few hard limits to what magic can accomplish, but manipulating time itself, much less allowing anyone passage through it… It is _impossible_.

“The Vir’Abelasan, then. Perhaps there is knowledge within that can aid us until Mythal can be petitioned.” Solas glances to Evelyn, and there is no mistaking the concern in his eyes. _For the mark_ , she tells herself. It has to be for the mark. “Can you stand?”

She nods. “Yes, I think so.”

He moves to help her up, but Abelas stop him with a hand on his arm. “Did she not say to use this sparingly?”

Solas winces at the contact, a tense look passing over his face when he shifts his attention to Abelas. “Ir abelas. You are right.” He stands, and moves aside.

Abelas rises and offers his own hand. She takes it begrudgingly, holding on only for the time it takes to stand. She crosses her arms over her chest once she is upright. “I’m fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.”

For a moment, he regards her as one might regard an insolent child, but then his mouth draws back into the faintest smirk. “That glib tongue will get you into trouble someday.”

“Probably. Just not this day,” Evelyn counters. She is pressing her luck and knows it, but he clearly wants her alive. Whatever this mark is, it grants her a reprieve—from Abelas, at least—and the confirmation is freeing. “Shall we move on? I’d prefer not to die, if it’s all the same to you.”

“By all means. We wait only for your delicate sensibilities to recover.” His tone drips with sarcasm, but Evelyn finds that she prefers it to the impersonal disdain he has shown her until now.

He follows her and Solas back to the hart, and when he aids her once more in mounting it, his treatment of her is decidedly more considerate. When he leaves, Solas leans in, his warm breath fanning over her ear.

She shivers, and it is not from the cold.

“The place I spoke of, the Vir’Abelasan… When we arrive, you must do exactly as Abelas says. The Petitioner’s Path is treacherous to those who do not show the proper respect, and even he does not wish to see you perish upon it.” There is gravity in his voice that she cannot ignore, but beyond it, there is something else.

“You don’t either, do you?” Asking seems pointless when she already knows the answer. What she does not understand is why.

He does not answer right away. His arms slip around her to find the reins.

“No, I do not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta, eveningshadowrising, is a peach, you guys. Pass it on.


	3. Chapter 3

They ride all night, and well into dawn, the sun rising at their backs to bathe the land in a warm, golden glow.

In the wilderness, it is almost too easy for Evelyn to forget where she is. _When_. On the surface, everything looks the same, rich greens and yellows, earthy browns, flashes of color through the trees as birds swoop overhead, and the russet pelts of foxes scurrying across the path their harts travel. When she breathes in, the air is no different, clean and sharp in her lungs. There is no obvious disquiet, no sense of wrongness to the world but the wonder that has grown to certainty in her mind.

This is not home.

Her mark sparks now and again, and as the pain ebbs, there is the faintest, fleeting sense of dashed hope, of _loneliness_ , almost as if it is searching, seeking to connect with something that simply isn’t there. 

Or perhaps she is projecting.

Why she would miss a home that does not miss her, a world that holds no love for her kind, she cannot say, but the disconnection from everything she knows… She feels adrift, untethered at the loss.

Her stomach rumbles all through the morning, clenching in turns to remind her of a necessity she has neglected for too long. She cannot remember the last time she ate—the clinic at the Conclave was woefully undermanned, and she did not often take the time she should have to track down a meal.

When they stop at a small creek to rest and water the harts, Evelyn slides to the ground with a grunt. She feels faint, unsteady on her feet—and must look it, because there is a steadying hold on her shoulder before she can take a single step.

“Let me help you.” Solas circles around to her other side, and offers his good arm.

She glances up, and smiles, small and wry. “You shouldn’t. You need to rest.”

“Of the two of us, you look to need it more.”

In the light of day, he is much easier to assess at a glance, and though she’s loathe to argue with him in light of the patience he has shown her from the start of their strange acquaintance, she must disagree. His eyes are drawn, and there are shadows beneath them. There is a pallor to his skin, beyond what seems to be a natural paleness, the dusting of freckles across his face that she hadn’t noticed last night standing out all the more for it.

“You haven’t seen you.” She shakes her head. “Entropic magic takes a toll. Not that I would know, my grasp of magic being so new, you see.”

He cants his head, half-amused, half-apologetic. “I’ve offended you.”

Her smile thins, not unkindly, but with weariness. “It will pass.”

She leaves as Abelas approaches, the murmur of their voices fading the further away she gets.

With careful steps, she approaches the bank of the creek and sits beside the skinny channel of flowing water. Her time outside of the Circle was much like this, until word of the Conclave spread; hiding in the wilderness, never staying in one spot too long, loathe as she was to leave a decent source of water. Then, she was laughably unprepared. For months, she existed on berries, fruits, roots, whatever could be eaten safely from trees and brambles, trapping game a more foreign idea than freedom ever was. 

Freedom, she has adjusted to—and the current lack of it chafes. Trapping is another story. But if she runs, she is at least confident in her ability to forage. 

She could do it. The elves she travels with have split off into small groups, two to the right, and three wandering down the shore. Solas, rather than taking the opportunity to rest, is turning to wind his way through the trees with Felassan. As far as she can tell, no one is paying attention to her. This… is a chance. There is one clear path left, and she shifts to glance at the woods behind her to confirm that it remains unguarded. She turns back, eyes darting about to ensure no gazes have drifted her way. Before she decides whether or not to rise, she counts them again, just to be certain.

Seven.

That isn’t right. There should be eight.

Solas, Felassan, and five others whose names she does not yet know are all accounted for.

Her jaw sets when she realizes who is not. Where he has gone to is easy enough to guess.

This is not a chance. This is enough rope to hang herself with.

Evelyn leans forward, and rests her elbows on her knees. There is a flash of movement in her periphery, someone breaking through the trees on her left. She does not have to look to see who it is.

Abelas crouches in front of her, his face an implacable mask. In one hand, he holds a water skin; in the other, a small pile of dark berries. His gaze is hawkish, golden and narrowed, studying her intently.

She thinks of his warning the night before. “I thought about it,” she says, schooling her features into careful neutrality. “Escaping.” Still a transgression, by his own words, but there is no point in pretending otherwise. She wonders what he will do with the confession. 

“And yet, you remain.” He offers the skin. She eyes it with trepidation, but it seems innocuous enough, so she takes it. “A wise decision on your part, shemlen. You would not have made it far.”

“I told you. I prefer not to die.” She puts the skin to her lips and tilts it up, her parched throat working to swallow a long guzzle of water.

“If that is true, then you should not have trespassed into elvhen lands.” It is not an accusation—rather, an observation, if an unsympathetic one. “Why have you come here?”

She sighs, and draws the back of her hand across her lips. What can she say? _I seem to have fallen into a time long before my own. Care to help me return?_ That will only prompt more questions, if he even believes that, questions he will not want to hear the answers for, particularly if the fate of his people comes up.

Barring the truth entire, she settles on the closest thing to it.

“I didn’t. Not on purpose. I was with my people, at a gathering. I was separated, and lost my way. I don’t know what happened to them, or where they are now.” Technically true. She has no idea how the Conclave fares. Rather, how it _will_ fare, when it happens.

“And this?” He curls his fingers around her wrist, and lifts her hand. “More happenstance?”

She jerks out of his hold, beyond tired of being manhandled. “ _Yes_.” The word hisses out between her teeth. “Why would I do this to _myself_? You heard Solas. It could kill me. Do I strike you as suicidal?”

“You strike me as many things—none of which I can know for certain.” He hunches down further, until their eyes are perfectly level. “If you are not precisely what you claim to be—”

“You’ll dispose of me.” She says, her voice flattening. “I understood you last night.”

Abelas shakes his head. “No, shemlen. But you will wish I had.”

Her position is precarious. One false move in any direction, and death will be upon her. Apart from Tranquility, she can think of no fate worse. Everything she is, everything she might become—gone, never to return. But she is _tired_. Whatever the threat, she hasn't the energy for ominous implications. "What is that supposed to mean?"

“It means that your fate rests with the Deliverer of Justice. Pray that she finds your words to be true.”

The Deliverer of Justice? A magistrate, perhaps? “And if she doesn’t?”

“Who can say? Lies cannot be spoken without a tongue, nor written without hands.” He says, unflinching, as if he himself has carried out the punishment a thousand times over. “Perhaps that will be the worst of it. Others have received such mercy, when they knelt before Mythal unworthy.” 

How he can call that mercy is beyond her comprehension—but he is not finished.

“It is unlikely that you would be so fortunate. You—are not elvhen, yet you bear the mark of magic that is. You were found with Andruil—”

Evelyn cuts him off. “She _attacked_ me. One of your own people was there. Ask him.”

“I have.” He says, bristling at the interruption. “But what transpired before his arrival? How am I to know you were not there at her bidding? If she attacked because you failed her, in some way? Tell me, shemlen, what is to be made of you apart from thief and liar, at _best_?”

This is a level of honesty she did not anticipate. If that is what he thinks, that she is a pawn of Andruil’s, part of some nefarious plot, why bother sparing her, let alone tell her any of this?

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks, her brows drawn in confusion.

“Because you cannot make a choice without knowing what awaits you. Whatever your purpose, whether you speak truly or not, make no mistake—all will be laid bare before Mythal.” Abelas shifts his weight, the hardness in his eyes relenting. “But you have aided one of my own, with no reason to intervene. For that kindness, I offer this in return—” He extends his hand, the berries he holds rolling at the motion. “—a quick death. Painless, by comparison. You would be a fool not to eat them, with odds such as yours.”

She looks at the berries. At first glance, they look innocent enough, something she might have gathered herself, for all that they resemble a kind she knows to be safe—yet another thing in this time bent on killing her.

As for the offer…

She jerks her gaze back to his, a storm of fury brewing within. There is nothing _kind_ in dying this way.

“I’m telling you the truth.” Danger or not, she will not give up so easily. Not after everything else she has lived through. “ _You_ eat them.”

He watches her closely, a decision forming all the while in his eyes.

“I believe you.”

Without another word, he picks one of the berries from his hand, and raises it to his mouth. She jerks forward with a cry to stop him—she hadn’t _meant_ it—but she does not reach him in time. His eyes do not leaves hers as he chews it, and swallows.

And he is— _fine_.

“You utter bastard.” She seethes. Her hands curl into fists. It takes all of her self-control not to throw the water skin she grips at his face. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Be glad of my belief in you, shemlen. It means you will live out the rest of this journey.” He stands, peering down at her without a trace of remorse. “Disagree with the gambit all you like, but you have Solas to thank for it.”

His words hit like a slap in the face. She reels back, as if she has been struck. “ _Why_?” 

Of all of them, she thought that Solas was…

No.

It does not matter what she thought. Of course he would be a part of this. These are his people. She is an unknown quantity, one they would be fools not to take the measure of in any way they can. This is no betrayal, because he is not her friend.

That does not mean it does not sting like one.

“He knew you would not eat them.” Abelas says. “A certainty I did not share.”

That only makes her gape further, the flare of her anger suddenly rudderless, unfocused without any clear direction.

“What would have happened?” She asks, though she thinks she knows the answer already. “If I’d eaten them?”

“You would be dead.” Abelas does not illuminate further. He does not need to. “Be grateful for his input. You would not appreciate the use of _my_ methods.”

She cannot imagine appreciating anything about him, apart from his absence.

“You should eat them.” He adds, and she glances down. At her side is the small pile of berries he had held, placed there without her noticing. “We will not stop again.”

She huffs, indignant, incredulous of his audacity. “I think I’d rather starve.” Her stomach rumbles in protest.

“The choice is yours.”

He turns, and leaves her to her solitude.

When she is certain he is far enough away, Evelyn relents to the painful clench of her stomach, plucks a single berry from the pile and pops it into her mouth. Considering the source, it ought to taste like bile. It does not. A rush of tart juice coats her tongue when she bites down, and it is all she can do not to sigh in satisfaction. She cannot recall the taste of any food being as good as this.

When she has eaten them all, she drinks the remainder of water in the skin, and kneels closer to the creek to fill it. When she turns, she finds that the elves have regrouped, eight pairs of eyes watching her expectantly.

She flushes darkly, and averts her eyes as approaches them. When she passes Abelas, she shoves the skin at his chest without a word of thanks for its use. It is all she can do to refrain from telling him to choke on the contents as she continues towards Solas.

Abelas does not follow to assist her in mounting the hart.

A wise decision on his part.

Solas regards her with a vague look of apology when she reaches him. “I am pleased to see that you still live.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her gratitude is stiff with waning offense. “Mind games are preferable to torture.”

“That mark is worthy of only so much consideration. He needed to believe _you_. Can you blame him?” There is no judgement in his tone for her reaction, rather, an infinite patience. “Suppose we are set upon by Andruil. How can he justify the force it would take to keep you from her, if he is not certain you are worth protecting? Why not simply remove the issue, and save his people the added risk you present?”

Evelyn flounders at that, her mouth opening only to close again when she has no response at the ready. There is only one thing to say, and it pains her to admit it.

“You’re right.”

She does not _like_ it, but he is.

She turns, unwilling to concede any further, and hoists herself up on the hart, going without aid a point of pride now. She scoots forward so Solas may do the same—though she offers a hand to assist him, lingering anger too poor an excuse to see him overtax the arm she’s bid him to rest.

The continuation of their journey starts quietly, but it is not long before her curiosity edges out her desire for silence on the matter of her test. Try as she might, she cannot wrest the sound of Abelas’s voice from her head.

_He knew you would not eat them._

What she does not understand is _how_. What Solas said last night, when she asked how he was so certain of her—that she seems a kind woman, that he senses no danger in her—it cannot be the whole of it. 

“How did you know?” She does not feel it necessary to specify what she refers to. “What Abelas said… what could happen to me? Even an innocent person would have considered that offer.”

“Perhaps. It was a risk.” The voice that answers is altogether different from what she has heard of him before. Gone is the easy kindness, and in its place is something far more calculated. “I meant what I said last night. You are kind, and I do not believe you mean to harm anyone. What Abelas suspected you to be… Andruil would not entrust a mark like that to one of her own people, let alone yours. The only hand she would deem worthy of it is her own. You cannot have failed her, because the task would never have been given to you.”

That, she can reconcile. Why couldn’t Abelas? “Why wouldn’t he believe that?”

“He does not know her.” There is steel in his voice again, stronger than the brief display of it last night.

“But you do.” It is not what he says that leads her to the conclusion, but what he does not say. He knows Andruil, in a way Evelyn hopes she never will. She would stake her life on it. “What did she do to you?”

His laugh is quiet, barely more than a huff of air. “That is a story for another day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Lowkey ship Abelas x Evelyn? No no no, you are mistaken.
> 
> (I ship the fuck out of it.)


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, Evelyn is able to drift to sleep during the final part of their journey.

The Fade itself is unchanged, a dream scape she is intimately familiar with springing to life around her.

She is running, always running, nothing but the clothes on her back and the staff in her hand as she races across the moors, away from the seaside prison that has held her all these years. She is not alone, others are running with her, some behind, some ahead, desperate to escape the Templars at their heels. Evelyn does not dare look back, not even when she hears a scream too close for comfort. She has no hope of defense, apart from a barrier, and even that will only last so long. Fire does not answer to her will, nor ice, nor the spark of lightning that follows the thunder in the storm that rages overhead. Running is her only chance. 

And then she slips. Falls. Claws her way forward on hands and knees in the downpour of rain. To stop is to die, there is no middle ground, not anymore. The Templars are not pursuing prisoners to recapture, they are coming to kill.

She drags herself upright with the help of her staff, and she keeps running as fast as she can.

The dream changes, then. It always changes. But the place it takes her to is new.

She is walking through a cavern, one that stretches farther than her eyes can see. There does not seem to be an end to it. Templars in full armor bustle down one side, men and women in Chantry regalia mingled in throughout. On the other side are her people. Mages, plainly clothed and keeping as far away as they can from those that have hunted them mercilessly these past long years.

This is the Conclave.

This is the last moment she remembers _being_ at the Conclave.

She left the clinic to clear her head, too exhausted to even try to sleep, and she feels it now, a bone deep weariness with every step she takes. The crowd thins the further she gets, until she is truly alone, deep with the temple’s interior. It is cold and quiet, torches placed sparingly along the walls, light enough to see the path, but not with clarity. She stops, sags back, and lets herself breathe in and out, long slow pulls of air that soften the cutting edge of her nerves and quiet the storm of thoughts rattling through her head.

The sound of a loud curse breaks her focus. It is not far ahead, though it is muffled, as if behind a closed door. She turns her head towards it, listening closely for another. Voices drift towards her, low, quiet, the words unclear.

Arguments are not uncommon here. It is the nature of the event, after all. But this, so far removed from everyone else—this seems wrong.

She approaches the noise cautiously and comes to a halt in front of a closed door.

She does not know what comes next.

* * *

Her eyes open slowly, narrow slits at first that widen as they adjust to the light.

There is a chill in the air and a light rain falling, filtering down through the canopy of trees, and yet she is not cold, bundled up and burrowed against solid warmth. For a moment, she simply lets herself remain there, fully aware of where she is and whose warmth she is sharing. What concerns her is how little it seems to bother her. All of this should bother her. She did not claw her way through muck and mud and blood to escape the Templars only to submit so easily now. And for what? Because—because she is starting to like him?

There were others, in the Circle, younger mages that made the mistake of growing friendly towards the Templars, forgetting their place in the order of things.

Such friendships never lasted long.

This is different, but that does not make it less dangerous. If anything, it is worse, because she knows what to expect of Templars. Ancient elves are a mystery even to their descendants and she does not trust her instincts to guide her with so little knowledge of the world she finds herself in, despite the inexplicable safety she feels in Solas’s presence.

It is not likely that she will find resolution any time soon. She pulls herself away without a word and sits up straight to lessen the contact between them. He does not attempt to make conversation and she is grateful for the indulgence in her desire for silence, though it does not make the hours pass by any faster as they travel onward.

The rain has stopped by the time they reach a small, weathered tower, hidden away in the trees. She cannot imagine why they are stopping here. It does not look large enough to house them all at once for a moment, let alone for a night’s rest, but she dismounts along with the others and follows Felassan’s lead towards the entrance with a brief flash of guilt at being so quick to leave Solas behind.

Felassan approaches alone and presses a hand to the stone. A section of the wall gives and slides open.

When she passes through the doorway, she is surprised to find that the stairs lead down rather than up. What could be down here? Something like the Deep Roads, perhaps?

“Has anyone ever told you that you walk like someone condemned?”

Evelyn glances over her shoulder and frowns. “Aren’t I?”

Felassan snorts a laugh. “And here I thought we were past all that. You do realize how rare it is for Abelas to let a tantrum like yours yesterday go without a fight, don’t you? If that’s not proof enough…”

She lifts her marked hand. “I meant this, actually, but go on, tell me how safe I am.”

“Why don’t I just ask you to walk faster, instead? That was the point, after all.”

“You can ask,” she says. She slows for a few steps, just to be contrary, but picks the pace back up when she hears him sigh behind her.

The stairs lead down to a large room, wide and expansive with a tall ceiling. It is lined with casks, filled with supplies, she assumes, but her attention drifts away from them when her eyes fall upon the enormous mirror standing against the wall at the far end.

“It’s… a mirror.” She cannot help but state the obvious aloud. “Why is there a mirror?”

“Shemlen.” Felassan steps forward to stand beside her with a shake of his head at her expression. “So quaint.”

“And _dying_.” What possesses her to joke with him like this, Evelyn cannot say. It has been a strange few days spent with these elves. “Do you really want that to be the last thing you say to me?”

He shrugs.

Felassan is perhaps the only person here she truly has any desire to speak to as they wait for whatever is meant to happen now. Abelas has been careful to keep distance. Solas too, to a smaller degree, though she can feel the weight of his gaze at her back every few moments. It only makes her feel worse for her continued silence towards him, but not enough to end it. Not yet. She is too unsure of herself and there are more pressing matters to worry about.

Like imminent death. That would be at the forefront of anyone’s mind.

One of the elves, a woman whose name Evelyn does not yet know, approaches the mirror. She moves with a purposeful sort of grace, a large sword of shining silverite at her back that she hardly seems to notice the weight of. The mirror comes to life at the woman’s whispered word, and Evelyn can barely contain the urge to jump back in surprise. When she passes through it, Evelyn immediately looks to Felassan, her eyes wide.

“What _is_ that?”

“Magic.”

She nearly swats him.

“It won’t hurt you," he says, only to pause and think better of it. "Well—it shouldn’t.”

“Wow.” She says flatly, unimpressed with the flimsy assurance. “That’s comforting, thank you.”

“Is it?” He nudges her shoulder. “Go on, then.”

“Not afraid I’ll run away?”

He smiles. “Hardly. I don’t think you’d like to get lost in there. Who knows where you’ll end up?”

She watches as the others pass through, Solas first, then Abelas, the others disappearing through the mirror after them. When her turn comes, she approaches it cautiously and lifts a hand to test the slow rippling surface, though what she means to test for, she cannot say.

_Oh, to the Void with it_ , she thinks, and pushes through before her hesitation can get the better of her.

There is a shiver, the same odd sense of the world shifting that the cave’s wards gave her, but true to Felassan’s word, it is not painful. 

The world that greets her on the other side is stark, a dismal looking place in varying shades of grey, slow moving clouds blotting out the sun overhead. On the ground is an endless assortment of mirrors like the one she has just passed through, some active, but most of them dormant, their surfaces as flat and reflective as their ordinary counterparts.

The air here seems to hum with power; she can feel the buzz of it in her lungs, on the tips of her fingers, her magic surging up in response to the bountiful feast after a lifetime of famine, and it takes all of her concentration to contain it, but hers is not the only force that has taken notice. The mark on her hand senses it too, and it wakes, but the glow is dim and there is no pain, as if it simply means to investigate.

The difference in its behavior is—unsettling.

That it has behavior at all is unsettling.

“It’s all right,” she whispers to it, the same soothing tone she would use for children new to the Circle and fitful in their slumber, despite the panic welling in her chest. “You’re okay.”

She does not want to consider it similar to anything living, but there does seem to be a kind of sentience to this mark, a will entirely its own. The notion of befriending it is not the worst plan she has ever considered, and it seems to work. The glow fades slowly, not unlike the way those same drowsy children would close their eyes. Perhaps the analogy is more apt than she thought.

When she glances up, it is to find the entire troop of elves watching her, their expressions ranging from Solas’s curious fascination to another’s outright alarm.

“Oh, paint a portrait,” she mutters. “It’ll last longer.”

“Come.” Abelas rouses the others from the spectacle she poses, a pointed glance in her direction as he moves forward. “We are not far.”

The obstinate part of her considers standing firmly in place, but she cannot see him allowing her the continued luxury of distance if she tries it. He seems the type to throw her over his shoulder if she will not move on her own, and that—she does not want that.

They wander down a dreary stretch of road until Abelas halts the group at another mirror. It is a grand thing, set in intricately carved stone and accompanied by the looming statues of what look to be a dragon and—a dog? Wolf? It seems a strange combination of creatures, but there is no time to ask about it, the others have already passed through to wherever it leads, and she and Abelas are the only two remaining on this side.

Evelyn does not look at him as she approaches, but she can feel his eyes on her, tracking her every step, tiny pinpricks of awareness raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck until she cannot stand it any longer.

“I’m sorry, have I breathed wrong?” She shoots him a sidelong glare. “Walked too loudly? Existed too offensively?”

“No.” He is a well of infuriating calm. “Are you attempting to exist offensively?”

“Of _course_ not, why would—”

“Then perhaps you should cease concerning yourself with what I think, and simply walk.”

_Make me_ , Evelyn almost says, hands curling into white-knuckled fists at her sides, but it is not a bluff she truly wants to risk seeing called. Her dignity is too valuable to tarnish this close to what may be her last day alive. She settles for sneering and wilts into an exaggerated bow, a deference she is all too practiced in demonstrating as she waits for the satisfaction of his reaction.

Satisfaction is not to be found. When she finally looks up, there is no one left to suffer her ire. She is alone. Utterly. He slipped past her without a word, and she is— _stung_ by the dismissal, her earlier exchange with Felassan coming back to haunt her.

_Not afraid I’ll run away?_

_I don’t think you’d like to get lost in there._

It is entirely possible that she earned this wound to her pride.

No.

She absolutely did.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. Following Abelas is not a decision, so much as an inevitability; her options are severely limited, and the reminder of that fact is just sobering enough to dislodge her head from her ass and set it back on her shoulders, where it belongs. She will not give him the satisfaction of thanking him for it, but the message is both received and understood.

A soft breeze and the faint chirping of birds greets her on the other side of the mirror, a welcome counter to the somber quiet of what she has just left behind. The ground is soft beneath her feet as she steps forward, a cushion of moss fading into stones that cover the surface of a cliff nestled amongst several taller rocky slopes. This new place is overwhelmingly green, alive and thriving, splinters of sunlight glinting off of the placid surface of a small, clear pool just ahead of her.

There is something curious about it, a stillness she cannot help but gravitate towards. Whispers seem to beckon from the water the closer she gets, only to be carried off by the breeze before she can understand any of them, dozens of hushed voices drifting quietly into the foliage around her.

A hand at her elbow steers her away before she can reach the pool. “It is not for you.”

She blinks up at Abelas, uncomprehending. “What is—”

“It is not _for_ you,” he repeats.

Whatever this place is, it is firmly outside the realm of things to test his patience on.

She does not press him further. One deserved reminder to tread softly was enough. She is in no hurry for another.

He leads her further away, towards the edge of the cliff, towards a ladder, she assumes, or a series of them, but after a single glance over the edge, she balks, backs away and casts him a dubious look. There is no way down but—down.

“You’re joking.”

He cants his head, and eyes her skeptically. “No.”

She looks again, careful to mind her distance from the edge. The others have somehow survived the drop, and have already begun to venture into the structure ahead. There is no possible way any of them scaled down the side of the cliff she stands on, not that fast, not without rope, which seems to be off the table, as options go. They have to have jumped.

The very thought makes her cringe.

Rather than take amusement in her unease, Abelas opts for a different approach. “I have not endured you for this long only to see you perish now. Walk straight ahead. Do not concern yourself with finding your footing, it will be there.”

“It’s not—I believe you, I just—” she glances away, “I don’t do well with heights. Or maybe it’s the falling part.”

He does not ask why. He does not attempt to convince her that there is nothing to fear. After a moment of consideration, he simply extends his hand. “So do not look.”

For a moment, all she can do is stare at his hand. She nearly refuses it, but the offer is a kindness she did not expect, and perhaps now is not the time to turn it away.

His hand is warm, rough with callouses, and large enough that it enfolds hers almost entirely when she takes it. There is strength in his grip, and not only in a physical sense. He radiates a will so staggering she imagines it can endure anything, and there is more than enough of it to borrow from. Saying that she does not do well with heights is a generous understatement.

She looks to him, thank you caught like a burr on the tip of her tongue and dug in too stubbornly to be released, but she cannot let the moment pass without some kind of acknowledgment. The nod she offers is less than he deserves, but it will have to be enough for now. When he steps forward, she follows suit, the edge so close she cannot bear to look. She closes her eyes, and if her hand clutches his a little too tightly, he does not mention it.

The first step sends her heart racing, the rapid thud of it so loud in her ears she wonders if he can hear it too. And then there is ground.

Well.

There is something like ground, that stops them from plummeting straight down, but she cannot bring herself to open her eyes to identify it. She takes another step, a slope she is only just beginning to notice that continues with every step that comes after, but still she cannot look, and her grip on his hand does not loosen. What was warmth from his touch is now heat, more intolerable by the second.

Another step.

And then it starts to burn.

Her eyes wrench open. Slithering veins of bright, pulsing green have spread from the tips of her fingers to well past her wrist. She can see them even through her sleeve and they are only climbing higher, winding tighter, and despite the agony of it, her first thought is not of herself.

“Let go.” Her voice is strung tight with panic. She pulls her hand away—or tries to, but Abelas’s grip is suddenly like a vice. “What are you—let go!” If this mark can kill her, she does not want to imagine what it could do to someone unfortunate enough to be holding on to her.

He does not let go. He drags her forward, and crouches just enough to scoop her up, rather unceremoniously, into his arms, and then he is running.

At any other time, Evelyn would protest, and loudly, but she can hardly think beyond the fire burning beneath her skin. She screws her eyes shut, clutches her arm to her chest, and curls to cradle it as much as she is able to, indignation the furthest thing from her mind.

She is dimly aware of voices as she is carried, footsteps echoing down low lit hallways, and then the unmistakable scent of herbs fills the air, earthy and rich. It reminds her of better times in the Circle, few as they were, of the rooms she worked so diligently in to heal, to help, the only thing she has ever been any good at. This place is something similar, and the familiarity of it soothes some of her panic, though the pain itself remains unbearable.

Abelas lays her down carefully, and the moment her limbs are free to move, she immediately tries to curl into a ball, a ragged cry echoing through the room that must have come from her. She thinks she hears someone say her name as she is coaxed into a more accessible position.

_Cut if off, cut it off, cut it off._

The words rise up like a mantra. She can bear the loss of her arm far easier than she can bear this. 

_Please. Please just cut it off._

She hears the tinny scrape of a blade being drawn beside her, as if the wielder has read her mind. It will hurt, she knows that much, but then it will be over.

If she is lucky.

She is not usually lucky.

More voices, words spoken with pointed emphasis, and then a door closes. But she is not alone, someone is still with her, and the fabric of her sleeve gives with an audible rip at their urging. Something cold touches her arm, but it does not feel sharp enough to be a blade. She cannot manage words, but she does find the will to dredge out a pained, unhappy noise to convey her displeasure in being made to suffer further.

“You helped me.” It is not solely a comfort, but a reminder, the quiet sound of Solas’s voice both calm and calming. “Let me do the same.”

Her arm is pried gently away from her chest, and held out straight by a firm grip on her wrist. It takes every bit of self-control still in her possession not to fight him. This—this is exactly what she would do, and exactly how she would do it, if she were him. That does not stop her other hand from balling into a fist so tight, her knuckles must be bone white.

“What I must do—it will not be painless.” He sounds unbearably apologetic. “Believe me when I say that you do not want to be awake for it.”

It may not be phrased as a question, but she recognizes the choice he is giving her. If she is certain of nothing else, she is certain that he will respect whatever decision she makes.

She nods, a single jerk of her head to signal her agreement. He smooths a tangle of dark hair away from her eyes, and lays his palm across her brow.

When she slips back into the Fade, the same dream is there to greet her.

She is running. Always running. There is nothing else she can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took awhile! Sorry about that, guys. Thank you so much for the comments and kudos on previous chapters. I appreciate each and every one. <3


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